Chowringhee

by Mani Shankar Mukherji

  For the luncheon party, special menu cards had been designed on the instructions of the Rai Bahadur—or rather, of his company, Livingstone, Bottomley and Goenka Ltd. The beautiful menu card had been designed by an internationally renowned advertising agency and printed at Calcutta’s best press in seven colours. The Rai Bahadur had insisted on a photograph of himself and the eminent guest on the last page. But the precious card couldn’t be used eventually. After the party had been fixed, the eminent guest informed him at the eleventh hour that he wouldn’t be able to arrive in time from Patna, thanks to an important committee meeting there. So his personal assistant had postponed the event by a day over the phone.

  Because of that phone call, the officers of Livingstone, Bottomley and Goenka hadn’t slept all night. Every single guest had to be informed of the delayed arrival, owing to unavoidable reasons, of the eminent guest. The multicoloured card couldn’t be reprinted at such short notice. At first it was decided to black the date out with ink, but because Rai Bahadur Sadasukhlal didn’t approve, the menu was printed on our special cards instead. Typing it out was my job—and what fabulous fare it was! First, Hors d’oeuvre Shahjahan. The soup, Crème de Champignons, followed by Filets de Beckti Sicilience. The rest of it went as follows: Jambon Grille Kuala Lumpur, Chicken Curry and Pilao, Pudding de Vermicelle et Crème, Tutti Frutti Ice Cream, Cream Cheese, and finally, Café et Tea (coffee and tea). For vegetarians it was Papaya Cocktail, Potato and Cheese Soup, Green Banana Tikia, Mixed Vegetable Grill, Dal Moong Piazi, Pilao, etc.

  I was busy typing out the menu at the counter. Bose-da would arrive any minute to take the cards to the banquet hall. That was when a lady, swinging an airline bag, came up to the counter. Jimmy, who was standing behind the counter, suddenly cried out in joy, as though he had been reunited with a loved one after years.

  The moment I saw her, I knew who she was. Ignoring me, Jimmy said, ‘Darling Rosie, your grape of a face has shrivelled so; your golden complexion looks burnt to a shade of copper.’

  Rosie laughed and said, ‘And my teeth?’

  Jimmy shook his head and said, ‘Your teeth are still just like pearls, though.’

  Shaking her head and trying to tame her undisciplined curls, Rosie said, ‘Thanks to your hotel job you simply can’t tell the truth, Jimmy. When on earth did I ever have a complexion like gold? You are the one who used to say I’d been sculpted out of granite!’

  Jimmy seemed a little embarrassed. Softly, he said, ‘Where’ve you been all these days? With not so much as a word from you?’

  Suddenly she noticed me. The sight of someone else at her machine seemed intolerable to her. In the usual Wellesley Street style she asked, ‘Hello! Who’re you, man?’

  I was burning with rage and humiliation. Without answering, I continued typing.

  Sensing an opportunity, Jimmy attacked me. ‘Well, young man, don’t you have any respect for ladies in your society? Can’t you answer a question put to you by a young lady?’

  Rosie was about to say something too, but before she could, Jimmy said, ‘You must be very tired, Rosie. Is it very hot outside? Your dress is damp under the arms.’

  Throwing a sidelong glance, Rosie said, ‘Yes,’ and added in an angry, cutting tone, ‘But Jimmy, a gentleman doesn’t look so carefully at any particular part of a lady’s anatomy.’

  Jimmy bit his tongue and said, ‘Oh dear, I didn’t mean to embarrass you, please believe me. But you have to agree that it is very unbecoming of ladies if their clothes are damp in that fashion.’

  Rosie looked at me and said, ‘Well, man, you haven’t answered my question. Who are you?’

  I was about to say, ‘What concern is that of yours? Mind your own business,’ but before that somebody behind me spoke, ‘He’s Mr Banerjee’s brother-in-law. Another cousin of his, Khoka Chatterjee, lives in Bombay.’

  It was like setting a cat among the pigeons. ‘Ah, dear S-Sata, you’re here,’ stammered Jimmy. ‘I-I was trying to introduce your friend to Rosie.’

  By now Rosie had turned quite pale. In spite of the air-conditioning, there were beads of perspiration on her nose. Bose-da came around behind the counter and said, ‘So where did you disappear to, Rosie? We were worried out of our minds.’

  Rosie stood trembling like a leaf. Jimmy gestured to her to go along with him.

  Bose-da said, ‘Please give me the cards if you’re through with them—we don’t want Mr Goenka’s honoured guests to be in any difficulty, do we?’

  Jimmy and Rosie whispered between themselves, glancing at me. When they returned to the counter, Jimmy said for Bose-da’s benefit, ‘Poor girl, how sad! So how’s your aunt now, Rosie? Better, I hope. The old lady must have suffered a lot.’

  ‘My luck,’ said Rosie. ‘But how is it that you didn’t get my letter? I left it in your room since the manager wasn’t there.’

  Bose-da said with mock seriousness, ‘No surprise there—maybe the rats chewed it up.’

  ‘Yes, quite likely,’ said Jimmy. ‘The rat menace in my room seems never-ending—the sight of those rats makes my blood go cold. They will be the death of me. If there are all these companies to exterminate termites, why can’t they have one to kill rats? Imagine such an important letter disappearing!’

  ‘Don’t waste any more time,’ said Bose-da, ‘go and explain things to Marco Polo right away!’

  Jimmy stopped in his tracks. ‘But your friend? Poor fellow!’

  Bose-da said seriously, ‘I’ve told you before, and I’m telling you again, I have no friends. This boy is not my friend—he’s simply my colleague. Anyway, don’t worry about him, you go and try to push Rosie’s case.’

  Overcome with gratitude, Jimmy said, ‘Thanks.’ He turned to Rosie. ‘Let’s go—but are you planning to go in this sweat-soaked dress? Dry off under the fan first.’

  Roise glared at him and said, ‘Even if you dipped me in ice I won’t stop perspiring. And if I don’t have a job, it makes no difference what I wear.’

  The two of them went off quickly in search of the manager. Bose-da smiled, clapped me lightly on the back and said, ‘This place should have been named Shahjahan Theatre instead of Shahjahan Hotel. Not that Rosie’s going to lose her job, she doesn’t lack admirers in this hotel. And heaven knows what’s happened to Marco Polo—he’s been down in the dumps. I’m sure he’s not going to fire anybody—whatever the error, as long as a reasonably logical explanation can be offered, he’ll let them off with a warning.’

  Marco Polo was prowling around the ground floor kitchen. Jimmy led Rosie in that direction. A little later Rosie came back with downcast face and stood before the counter.

  ‘What did he say?’ asked Bose-da.

  Biting her nails, she said, ‘Poor Jimmy had bad luck, he got screamed at for his troubles. Marco Polo charged at him with bared fangs and said he hadn’t been employed to intercede on behalf of women. And he didn’t have the leisure to listen to a lady typist whining. He said he will see me after lunch.’

  Rosie’s next reaction took us by surprise. Luckily there was no one else at the counter. Bursting into tears she said, ‘I know you can’t stand the sight of me, Sata, but what have I done to you? You can’t stand me, you never could, you’ve got your cousin a job to ruin me.’

  Taken aback, Bose-da said, ‘Rosie, this is a hotel counter—don’t create a scene here. What was that you said? That I’ve brought in someone to get rid of you!’

  Rosie continued to sob. ‘I’d been away four days once before too and no one grabbed my job then.’

  ‘What on earth are you saying, Rosie?’

  Wiping her eyes, she continued, ‘I know I’m dark as the night, I know I’m not beautiful. People call me a Negro behind my back. You don’t like me. You deliberately told the manager about my going off to Bombay—and in front of all those people you said this fellow is Mr Banerjee’s brother-in-law.’

  Practically transfixed, Bose-da said slowly, ‘Rosie, I’ve never in my life tried to take away someone’s bre
ad and butter—and I never will. But I’m sorry about having raised the subject of Mr Banerjee, please forgive me.’

  He collected the menu cards for lunch and went out. Rosie immediately came round the counter. Looking me up and down, she said, ‘Open that drawer on Sata’s right-hand side, will you?’

  ‘Mr Bose will be back in a moment,’ I said. ‘I can’t open the drawer.’

  Bending over to scratch her calf, she said, ‘There’s nothing confidential in that drawer—William Ghosh sometimes leaves chocolates there for me, please take a look.’

  I opened the drawer and saw a few chocolate bars inside.

  A smile appeared on Rosie’s lips. ‘William hasn’t changed. He’s such a sweet boy! He had promised to leave the chocolates, so I’d get them whenever I opened the drawer.’

  Breaking off a piece for me, she said, ‘Have some—after all, you’re an influential person, you’ve even managed to win over Sata. We had always thought he had no heart—or, if he did, it was a plastic one, but you’ve conquered that as well.’

  I couldn’t say no, and nibbled on the chocolate. ‘Do you think William spends money on chocolates for me?’ said Rosie. ‘Not at all—he couldn’t be bothered. They get a lot of chocolate at the counter...American tourists don’t give tips to people at the reception, they think it’s an insult; instead, they give pens or chocolates.’

  Bose-da returned to the counter and said, ‘The manager’s still very busy, Rosie, but I managed to talk to him about you.’

  ‘What did he say?’ she asked apprehensively.

  Without answering her, Bose-da told me, ‘Go upstairs, take your things out of Rosie’s room and put them in Pamela’s.’

  ‘What?’ I was about to exclaim, but Bose-da broke in, ‘Pamela’s act won’t do in Calcutta. The police have served notice. She’s vacated her room and is leaving today.’ He continued gravely, ‘I’d meant to show you the ropes at the luncheon party today, but the steward isn’t willing. He’s a new man, he says, might make mistakes. Anyway, there’ll be plenty of opportunities later on. Go on upstairs, I’ll inform Gurberia over the phone.’

  Rosie practically fell on Bose-da now and said, ‘Sata dear, what did the manager say about me?’

  Bose-da smiled and said, ‘You needn’t worry any more—go and settle into your room. I’ve explained to the manager why you were absent.’

  Her face lit up with joy and gratitude.

  Once on the terrace, however, she started hissing like a wounded cobra, as I quietly got Gurberia to move my things out of her room and into the empty one. ‘My turn will come too,’ she said, ‘I’ll take it out on Sata then, I’ve seen many great men here at Shahjahan—all of them are either Jesus Christ or St Peter!’

  My East Bengal blood began to boil. I’d already had a taste of the filthy heart of this squeaky clean hotel, and digested it—after all, I was employed here, and beggars can’t be choosers. But I wasn’t willing to hear these dirty people talk about Bose-da that way.

  I glared at her. ‘I think you’re overstepping the bounds of civility,’ I said sharply.

  ‘What? What did you say?’ Rosie burst into flames. She swooped down and grabbed my wrist. I had no idea that in this very Calcutta a woman one wasn’t related to could grab an unknown man’s wrist in this fashion. I even felt a little scared. Suppose I sparked off a scandal trying to free myself? What if this dangerous woman started screaming and shouting and attracted a crowd?

  Gurberia was standing at a distance—he knew his Rosie, and over the past few days, he’d come to know a little of me, too. Though he had seen my precarious situation out of the corner of his eye, he did nothing. Rosie pulled me into her room and slammed the door shut. The whole thing happened in a flash, before I could react. But before I was dragged in, I thought I saw a mysterious, obscene smile on Gurberia’s face.

  It was pitch dark inside—not even a window was open. Rosie locked the door from inside, panting. Freeing myself with a jerk, I moved towards the door to get out, but she stood before the door, like a madwoman, her bosom heaving violently. Softly, she said, ‘I’m not letting you go, you have to sit down here.’

  When I tried to push her away and open the door, she coiled around my arm like a snake and spoke in a well-rehearsed, staccato voice, ‘If you try to get out, my lad, I’m going to scream that you tried to molest me. If necessary, I’ll go further and say that you locked the door and tried to assault a defenceless girl.’

  I wasn’t prepared for such a situation. The experienced reader might pity me for my lack of presence of mind and mental strength, but I have no qualms about admitting that I was really scared at the time. I thought Rosie would start screaming, ‘Save me, save me,’ at any moment. And from what I knew about the law, imagining the subsequent events sent a shiver down my spine. By then the power and courage to push her aside and open the door had evaporated.

  Abandoning any attempt to open the door, I simply stood there for a while trying to figure out what I had let myself in for in my quest for a harmless typist’s job. Meanwhile, Rosie tried to bring her heaving bosom under control. Clenching her teeth, she said, ‘In fact, you have outraged my modesty—you’ve said I’m not civilized, that I’ve overstepped the bounds of decency.’

  ‘Please,’ I said, ‘you’re getting worked up.’

  ‘You have insulted me,’ she said.

  ‘I met you barely half-an-hour-ago—I’ve hardly even spoken to you.’

  ‘You’re Mrs Banerjee’s cousin,’ she said, ‘you must have heard a lot.’

  What a scrape Bose-da’s sense of humour had got me into!

  In the dark, Rosie said, ‘All of you must be telling people I’ve milked a lot of money out of Banerjee—that I ran away to Bombay with him for money.’

  What could I say? I kept quiet.

  ‘And now you’re standing there innocently as though you wouldn’t harm a fly, as though you’ve never even seen Mr or Mrs Banerjee in your life.’ Panting, she added, ‘You can tell your cousin the poor thing has married an animal. He lied to me—he told me he wasn’t married. And that devil Byron must have said that the two of us were at another hotel before leaving. We were, but I didn’t take money for it. I couldn’t get him over to this room, we’re not allowed to.’

  Tears streamed down her cheeks. Wiping her eyes and pushing her hair back with her left hand, she said, ‘You, your brother-in-law, your cousin—all of you have outraged my modesty.’ Between sobs she muttered, ‘Do you know that I have a mother, a paralyzed father, and two unmarried, unemployed sisters? We’re locals, but you Calcuttans make us out to be Negroes. Abroad, you talk big about apartheid but the fact is that you hate us. I’d thought of marrying Banerjee and going away, and asking Jimmy to give my job to my sister. Do you know how badly she wants to have dinner at the Shahjahan? They live on bread, potato and onions, while I eat full course meals here, thanks to Jimmy.’ After a pause, she added, ‘I could have pushed off with your brother-in-law, but suddenly I learnt he has a wife—and now I see she has a brother, too. I feel sick!’

  ‘May I leave now?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, you may,’ she said, ‘but I still haven’t told you what I wanted to.’

  Without trying in vain to explain that I wasn’t related to the Banerjees, I simply said, ‘What is it?’

  Even in the darkness, I could tell that Rosie’s face had assumed grotesque proportions. ‘Your sister’s been telling people that Banerjee has run away with a dirty hotel girl,’ she said. ‘That’s a lie—an utter lie. And tell your sister, I spit on her husband’s face.’ And Rosie really spat on the floor.

  Grinding her heel over it seemed to have bought her back to her senses. Making a face, she said, ‘I’m sorry—what’s the use of telling you? I only wasted my spit, I should have kept it for Banerjee.’

  She opened the door a crack and pushed me out, then slammed it shut behind me.

  6

  Even as Rosie slammed the door on my face, a window to the world opened
as that very day Bose-da began introducing me to the rudiments of the work at the reception counter. ‘If only you could have been at the luncheon party, you’d have learnt a lot,’ he said. ‘Anyway, there’ll be many more opportunities—Calcutta is well known for its banquets; people here go bankrupt feasting and hosting.’

  Explaining the intricacies of the job he said, ‘Standing here for hours on end and listening to two thousand complaints from one thousand people is hardly pleasant, so I tell myself that I’m standing at a window to the world. How many people have the good fortune of standing at the Shahjahan counter and seeing the world in this fashion?’

  ‘The world?’ I asked.

  ‘What else but the world?’ Bose-da reiterated. ‘I’ve seen passports of a hundred countries at this counter. Except for cannibals of the jungles, there’s no race on earth whose members Sata Bose of Shahjahan hasn’t met.’

  ‘But is that all there is to the world?’ I asked.

  Placing a hand on my shoulder, Bose-da said, ‘Beware! You’re just allowed to observe, not ask questions—the latter only leads to unhappiness. Those who listen quietly are much happier. Whereas those who wonder why this should happen, why that is tolerated, inevitably get into trouble, and many of them have gone to their graves worrying about it.’

  Arranging the registers on the counter, I smiled. Bose-da continued, ‘Of course, that doesn’t mean I’m not going to answer your questions. I keep praying to God that the real world be different, that the people we see here are the exception rather than the rule. Poor Karabi Guha once told me, “One can’t judge the world from one’s home—the pet lamb at home turns into a tiger in a hotel.” She should know—her experience isn’t bookish; everything she says about hotels is worth its weight in gold.’

  I didn’t know who Karabi Guha was. Seeing the look on my face Bose-da asked, ‘You haven’t met Karabi Guha yet? That’s both good and bad news. Of course, she seldom goes out—and even if she does, it’s through the backstairs. She isn’t allowed to sit in the lounge—Mr Agarwalla doesn’t like it at all.’